


Story: The Fairy Who Judged His Neighbours (Albus/Minerva, Snape, Aberforth)

by eldritcher



Series: The Albus Triad [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Wartime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 02:40:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2371463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1971, Albus presides over an Order meeting, watches Sirius Black at his best, plays mind-games with Aberforth, discovers that Minerva has aged right under his crooked nose and ponders how to deal with a turncoat. Albus/Minerva</p>
            </blockquote>





	Story: The Fairy Who Judged His Neighbours (Albus/Minerva, Snape, Aberforth)

  
Thank you to [](http://heartofspells.livejournal.com/profile)[ **heartofspells**](http://heartofspells.livejournal.com/) for the excellent beta-work she has done for the story! The piece is for her, to cheer her on, as she goes about tackling her  entry for the R/S games. 

 

Albus/Minerva. G. 

In 1971, Albus presides over an Order meeting, watches Sirius Black at his best, plays mind-games with Aberforth, discovers that Minerva has aged right under his crooked nose and ponders how to deal with a turncoat.

 

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“Benjy,” snarled Alastor as he entered the large Headmaster’s office where we were convened. “Found only pieces of the boy, Albus.”

Benjy Fenwick. Twenty-three years old. Ravenclaw. Played Beater for their team. Prefect. Six Es and one O in his N.E.W.T.s. I stopped the thread of thought, ashamed. He had been a _person_ , not a record in Argus Filch’s office. He had preferred his tea with two sugars, loved Muggle music and had a pet ferret. He had left his mother all alone in the world. Fawkes nipped my shaking fingers and brushed his plumage against my hand in a gesture of solace. I shook my head at him. He trilled softly and flew to the other end of the table, where, beside Minerva, sat the turncoat.

“Damn it!” Sirius Black hissed, following Fawkes’s movement with his eyes.

He was a proud embodiment of fire and defiance as he shot to his feet and began pacing. War had felled many bright stars, but it had also stirred many to incandescence. Sirius was among the second category. True and fierce he burned, as he led our men against the Death-Eaters. A fearsome sentinel he made. Men spoke in hushed whispers about how even Travers and Lestrange chose to Apparate away than engaging this wayward scion of the Blacks in a duel.

Minerva pursed her lips in disapproval at Sirius’s pacing. Lily’s hand curled protectively over her belly. There were tears falling down her cheeks. The pregnancy was wreaking emotional havoc on her; to be with child while you were in a war was terrible. Mother had been not well enough, when she had been carrying Ariana, and Father had doted on her and knitted misshapen, woollen socks for her.

James was looking at Lily. I could see lines of worry furrowed into his brow. This war was aging him rapidly. Too young to fight, too young to be a murderer, even if those he killed had been murderers all, too young to wake every morning aware that his days might be numbered and too young to know that his Lily, ripe with child, might be killed before him. One could never be old enough for a war.

Beside James sat pudgy Peter, gnawing his lips and looking positively wretched. There were dark rings of sleeplessness about his eyes. A pall of fear sat ill upon his round face. I remembered seeing the same expression on his features, from not so long ago, when Mrs. Norris had bitten his fingers. I had comforted him with lemon-drops then. Now tidings of death and loss came every day and what consolation had I to offer?

A thin hand came to rest on Peter’s shoulder, offering silent support. Ah, Remus; stoic, level-headed, sensitive Remus, with his shy grins, mildly chiding words to counter Sirius and James when they made merry with their pranks. So determined had I been to alleviate his hardships in life. I had bent rules for him, I had overridden another child’s welfare for him, I had made transactions with cutthroat brewers of Knockturn Alley to see that his potion reached him on time every month. And now look where I had led the dear boy into? Right into the jaws of war.

Sirius stopped pacing. Fawkes butted his head against Minerva’s wrist and made a graceful hop onto the next person’s shoulder. Sirius narrowed his eyes and began, “ _Snivellus_ -” he spat the word, “-has sent another good man to his death.”

Minerva frowned. She did not approve of schoolyard names. I rubbed my temples wearily, hoping that she would not intervene and put a stop to Sirius’s tirade. The boy needed to get it out of his system. He had a mercurial temperament. What others mistook for brashness and entitlement was a facade, I knew, to hide his heart. He was now fraying at the edges, driven to the edge by desperation and fear, worried to death about his friends’ safety. Even now, his eyes were flickering anxiously over Remus’s tired, thin form and Lily’s weeping figure. He needed an outlet. I had explained Sirius’s state of constant worry to the target of his frustrations after the last meeting. I hoped that my injunctions might be heeded this once.

“Keep a civil tongue, young man,” said abruptly the surly man who was sitting beside me.

“Aberforth-” I began, worried that Sirius might take offence at my brother’s harsh tone.

Aberforth refused to take his glare off Sirius. I resisted the urge to rub the bridge of my nose. Minerva often complained about how Sirius still had not grown up. How did she fail to see that my brother continued to bait me with the same childish taunting that Sirius used on those he disliked?

“Has anyone been to tell Mrs. Fenwick yet?” Lily asked, the quaver in her voice showing only faintly, suppressed by her courage.

James looked at her fondly, as he did every time whenever she spoke. Another pair of eyes, dark and covetous, was now on her too. Sirius had noticed that and he snarled.

“Hasn’t anyone ever taught you not to make eyes at a married woman?”

Minerva looked ready to reprimand Sirius and only my stern glance prevented her from doing so. James was outraged. Lily’s knuckles were white as they clenched about the table’s edge.

“I apologise if I have offended the delicate sensibilities of Mrs. Potter,” Snape murmured, not taking his eyes from Lily’s tensed form.

She refused to meet his gaze. A story lay concealed between them. It was evident for all to see. Strong sat the guilt upon her pinched brows: the guilt of choosing a man handsome, accomplished, rich and beloved over an awkward, insecure, impoverished man whom her rejection had sent careening into darkness. The guilt was misplaced, I wanted to tell her. She would understand it only with time, though, and then she would accept that she had made the right choice. Nothing, no force on earth, not even his widowed mother’s tears or his beloved’s kiss, would have prevented Snape from becoming a Death-Eater. He had too much to gain, from Avery and Rosier, from Malfoy and Lestrange, and from Voldemort himself. They had taught him all that he knew. They had taught him to wield the finest magic and to duel eight-on-one. They had taught him arcane brewing of poisons and philtres. They had hauled him from penury to a semblance of financial security. Snape loved Lily, but he loved magic more. He reminded me of Riddle and Gellert and Filius and myself, with his fierce love of magic. Lily deserved better, Lily deserved a man who would not value anything above her; Lily deserved James.

It would take quite some time before Lily understood that she had made the right choice. It would take an eternity before Snape accepted that. For now, though, I saw no need to point out the obvious to them. I needed Lily’s hold on Snape, for now, to steer him to our side completely. He was an invaluable asset and one that dear Tom had invested much effort in.

“Mr. Snape,” I cut in, before Sirius or James could leap in to defend Lily’s honour. “Would you mind brewing the Wolfsbane potion for our Remus, starting this month? It would be a part of your tasks as a teacher at this school.”

Sirius smirked, but James and Remus looked worried, understandably so, given that Snape might slip a dash of poison in with none being the wiser. Minerva rubbed her temples. Fawkes settled in Snape’s lap a tad more comfortably. The man’s hand came to pat the bird’s head distractedly as he glared at me.

“Well?” I pressed.

“Ingredients,” he said laconically, putting on a composed, disinterested expression. “I would like to meet you after the meeting to discuss the procuring of ingredients.”

“I guess it will be convenient to have our own potion-boy,” Sirius remarked. “Anything you can brew for hair-care, eh, Snivellus?”

“We should discuss the situation regarding Mr. Fenwick’s mother,” Minerva interrupted. Her expression was so stern and forbidding that Sirius decided to resume his seat and listen to the rest of the meeting with feigned patience.

Later, after we had decided on what was to be done to secure Mrs. Fenwick’s safety and means of living, we parted. Alastor hurried away with the McKinnons, discussing Auror department internal politics. Sirius and James were hovering protectively about Lily. Remus was speaking in hushed tones with Peter as they followed the other three out. The other junior members soon left to see to various tasks of surveillance handed out by Alastor, and in the room with me now remained only Minerva, Aberforth and Snape.

“What are you doing for Christmas, Severus?” Aberforth asked, before I could begin the spy’s debriefing.

Snape stared at him, incredulous. I glared at my brother, for I knew well what he was on about.

“Well?” prompted Aberforth again.

Snape dropped his gaze abruptly to the floor before saying in a tensed voice, “I have a standing engagement with some of my _associates_. Why do you ask?”

“What are they planning?” I asked, worried and already going over the Order member’s Christmas plans. I ought to alert Alastor as soon as I could.

Snape shifted his gaze from the floor and met my eyes defiantly before muttering, “Annual Christmas week celebrations. No, there is no gore involved.”

“Christmas celebrations?” Minerva asked weakly.

Aberforth chuckled and threw me a look that proclaimed smugness.

“Severus, have any of the Order members invited you for a Christmas dinner?” he continued gently.

Minerva inhaled sharply, realising Aberforth’s intentions. I tried to catch my brother’s eye, to warn him silently not to go further, to not jeopardise the tricky accord I had made Snape agree to.

“You know very well that none of them shall,” Snape replied curtly.

“Sad, is it not, Severus?” Aberforth crooned. “Tell me, then, if you don’t mind me prying, how were you able to afford living on your own after school, before you accepted this position? You have been supporting your mother, too, haven’t you?”

Snape coloured and threw Minerva a beseeching look, silently asking her to save him from ongoing war of the Dumbledore brothers. He had been caught in our petty games to undermine each other from the very beginning. Unlike the other Order members, Snape had no special fondness for me, and Aberforth had scented blood. Now, like sharks, we circled the poor turncoat, trying to rattle his facade and to get him to proclaim loyalty to one of us.

“Severus?” Aberforth enquired again.

“My _associates_ have funded my education and living expenses, ever since my sixth year at Hogwarts,” Snape spat, his dark eyes flashing in helpless anger. He knew that he would not be able to evade the questions or lie, not now, not if he wanted us to take his word on other matters at face value. He very much wanted to be believed, for he still entertained notions of being Lily’s knight in shining armour. “The art of potion-making is much sought after in certain circles, and I operate from a certain associate’s farm to brew and have potions delivered to clientele acquired through discreet means.”

“How loyal of them,” remarked Aberforth. “What is the Order paying you, Severus, apart from the paltry teacher’s salary? Spying is a most deadly activity; spying on the Dark Lord himself unspeakably so.”

Snape did not reply. Aberforth threw me a triumphant look and then sent loose his final flurry of verbal arrows.

“Tell me, Severus, how many of your associates call you by first name?”

Snape flinched at that and Minerva threw a sharp, disapproving glare at Aberforth for his callousness. Nobody, except Aberforth, called Severus by his first-name. Most preferred to remain ignorant of the turncoat’s existence. Some, like Alastor, spat his surname as if it were filth. A few, like Sirius, had schoolyard taunts to address him by.

“All of them do,” whispered Snape, looking quite wretched and sick. “All of them do. Mr. Dumbledore, before you ask, none of the Order members call me by my first-name, except for you. What are you trying to imply?”

“Merely that your betrayal makes no sense, my boy,” pointed out Aberforth, with a wry smile curving his chapped lips.

Snape made a half-stifled sob and staggered to his feet. Without a word, he stormed out the room, leaving behind a silence in his wake. Minerva looked at me first, then looked at Aberforth, then she sent an imploring look heavenward before gathering her skirts and following in Snape’s wake, no doubt to console him. She was rather maternally protective of him, though only heaven knew what she saw in the turncoat. Fawkes trilled softly and swooped to take his usual place on the window-ledge.

“You have done it, haven’t you?” Aberforth asked, his tone suddenly cautious and soft. “You have taken her as a lover.”

“Hardly,” I replied tersely, trying not to think of the fastness of Nurmengard and the man whom I had left to rot there.

Aberforth sighed.

“What?” I asked, weary of our games.

“She is no delicate flower, Albus, but neither is she as invincible as you seem to think. Tread lightly, will you? You cannot substitute her for-”

“-for?” I dared him. “You are jealous. You have always been jealous of me.”

“For Christ’s sake, Albus, I am simply trying to prevent you making a mistake!” exclaimed my brother, righteous and earnest, unbearably so.

“Don’t invoke deities I don’t believe in, Aberforth,” I said harshly, and those were the very words I had shouted at him, a summer long ago, over our sister’s grave.

“Let it go,” muttered Aberforth. He rubbed his eyes and said, “I have something else to tell you, though.”

“Ah, anything of import from your sources?” I asked. Often, his shady clientele had let slip hints in their conversations which had helped out the Order.

“You are familiar with Ingelow’s works, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Jean Ingelow,” I murmured. “ _And bitter waxed the fray; brother to brother spake no word when they met in the way_. One might have dared assume that Ingelow was too classical for your tastes.”

“I will thank you to refrain from labelling everything you like as classical,” Aberforth muttered. “Yes, Ingelow. She has written a story that reminds me of you every time I read it.”

“Do amuse me.”

“It is about a fairy who judged her neighbours,” Aberforth said, his eyes glinting with dark malice. Was this the same boy who had flown kites with me? “She was a very good fairy, on the whole. Her only fault was that she took for granted everything must be wrong if it was not right to her.” He threw a pointed glance my way. I frowned. He continued, “So her mother sent her to see the world, thinking that she might become less judgemental if she saw more of the world. The little fairy travelled and travelled, and came to a meadow where she met a skylark with sharp, clawed feet. She thought the poor lark a very beastly fellow indeed, for surely, someone with so sharp claws must be cruel.”

“Do cease!” I exclaimed, quite irritated by his narration. “No doubt the lark’s claws came in extremely handy at a later date, and then the little fairy repented.”

“Well, yes-” Aberforth allowed, “-it is a children’s tale, after all.”

“Trite.”

“You remind me of the little fairy, Albus,” Abeforth said sharply. “The way you judge Severus – turncoat¬, whispers your every glance and gesture ¬at him – reminds me of the fairy judging the skylark.”

I snorted. “Dear me, brother, you are seeking answers to my psyche in children’s tales? I do worry about your fanciful imagination.

“Do as you think fit,” said Aberforth irritably. He heaved himself to his feet and made for the door. “You always do. Don’t send that pest of yours to convey your season’s greetings on Christmas Eve, Albus. I will have him roasted instead of the traditional goose.”

Fawkes made a cry of protest but Aberforth had already shut the door behind him.

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Two days later, I ran into Snape as he was hurrying to the Entrance hall. He was clad in brown robes that had gold trimmings at the ends. How unusually colourful for him.

“Anything you needed to ask me, Headmaster?” he demanded, a trifle impatiently.

“Enjoy your holiday, Severus,” I told him.

He looked quite suspicious, no doubt because of my usage of his first-name. Then he gave me a sharp nod and left.

“The poor boy is addled enough in the head even without your manipulations, Albus,” Minerva said as she came to join me. “I would thank Aberforth and you to leave young Mr. Snape well out of your games with each other.”

I looked at her. For the first time in many years, I looked at her properly. There were wrinkles about her eyes and about the curves of her lips. There were lines on her forehead and silver at her temples. She looked a pale shadow of the young woman I had kissed in 1956. Had age come upon her swiftly and softly, like mist settling over a moor, or slowly and heavily, like pine resin? I had not noticed. I had been busy waging a war against a monster I had had a hand in making. I had been busy watching others’ lives. I had been busy living in the summers of yesterday. While I had been busy, Minerva had aged right beneath my crooked nose.

“I don’t treat you half as well as I want to,” I remarked softly.

“Your brother was trying to bait you,” she said impatiently. “You ought to know better than to take his words to heart. The pair of you are worse than those pups sometimes.”

“ _Pups_?” Never in all my years of knowing her had she shown an interest in pups.

“Sirius, James and the rest of them,” she said, and then hastily explained before I could tease her. “Lily calls them so. They are always frolicking and begging her with their innocent, wide-eyes to let them play, she says.”

“They do play go-fetch for her quite a lot,” I commented.

Then I smiled to let Minerva know that I had truly meant no offence to the pups by that statement. They were indeed full of life and vibrantly impatient. Let them frolic. Wasn’t it their playfulness which had endeared them to me in the first place? Such men and women were needed in this war. Brooding and sullenness would win no cause. Yet, Aberforth had called me judgemental. He had warned me not to judge a lark by its claws.

“Away thinking?” Minerva asked. There was a world of weary patience in her tone. Silently and stoically did she put up with me. I had given her nothing in return, not even a ring of vows or my name in marriage.

“Would you be amenable to visiting Flamel with me?” I asked her.

I had never asked her to accompany me anywhere before. Asking her to accompany me to Flamel’s was crossing the Rubicon. Old Nicholas was a man who had taught me most of what had made me Albus Dumbledore. If my poor mother had been alive, it would have been to her that I took Minerva this Christmas. She was not alive. So there was only Flamel to take Minerva to.

I looked at the woman before me. She was standing still, her lips slightly parted, awe and fear on her features as she stared at me.

“Minerva?”

“Yes,” she whispered. Her fingers were trembling and she had turned very pale. She understood what this invitation meant. She understood that it was the only acknowledgement of our relationship I would make. Yet, she said yes.

Aberforth was right, I realised, as I stood with Minerva in the small patch of winter sunlight streaming through the high windows. I had spent years ignoring the stoic skylark in my keep, chasing after the mirage of a man long lost to darkness.

“Albus?”

“Yes?”

“You won’t be wearing that nightmare of purple and gold, will you?” she asked, worried.

I was quite fond of the purple and gold nightmare, and did think that it became me very well. However, she was standing with such an expression of earnest pleading on her dear face, and she had never begged me for anything before, in all the years of our acquaintance, and I gave her the only answer I could.

“I think I can forego it this Christmas.”

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External Source Text: Jean Ingelow’s short story: The Fairy That Judged Her Neighbours http://www.readbookonline.net/readOnLine/33225/  



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